


A Place for Lace

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7724944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes develops an odd phobia.  Watson does his best to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place for Lace

Upon the odd occasion, it was the habit of our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, to refurbish and redecorate our rooms to some degree. Whether a freshening of the paint, or of the wallpaper at the landing, we bore these changes fairly stoically for the most part. Left to our own devices, I knew full well that we would alter precisely nothing; would be content with living adjacent to the same tattered rugs and curtains, with jaded paints and paper coverings, until their ultimate decay. And I doubt – even then – if we should notice.

After the latest bout of cleaning and renewal, which had annoyed Holmes to his zenith, we sat back to wonder if the torment might be near conclusion. 

“We have to make it stop,” said Holmes, his face creased up in anguish. “Is there something you can put in her tea, Watson? Do you have any sedatives?”

I stared at him, horrified. “I have absolutely no intention of drugging our landlady,” I said. “Whatever is wrong with you?”

He waved his hands in my direction. “I put my fingers in the paint can by mistake, and now they're all covered in _Summer Yellow_ and I can't get it off. I've been scrubbing for hours.”

“Why in heaven's name did you put your fingers in the paint can?” I enquired.

Holmes tutted. “I don't know. It just seemed like a good id--”

“--ea at the time,” I finished for him. “As so many things do with you.”

My friend's face turned mournful. He glared down at his fingers. “I really don't like _Summer Yellow_ ,” he said.

“I don't suppose that you do,” I replied. I picked up the paper and pretended to read. From behind my spread broadsheet I heard tiny puffs, as of nostrils exhaling in pique. I stifled a chuckle. “Is it your intention to carry on like this all evening?”

A further flurry of puffs, and then, querulous: “Yes.” A pause. “Watson, I simply can't BREATHE. _Summer Yellow_ smells like a pile of rotting turnips. Our doorframes smell like turnips. My fingers smell like turnips. Mrs. Hudson smells like the biggest turnip of them all.”

I set down my paper and looked across at him. “Stop it,” I said. “Just stop with all this now. I have a bottle of oil that will remove the paint from your hands. Stop behaving like a child. Mrs. Hudson does not smell like a turnip,” I added sharply.

He nodded mutely, sullenly. He looked sharply to the door then, alarmed, I suppose, that the lady herself may have been standing there and fuming, having overheard his taunt.

It took us fifteen minutes to remove the yellow paint from Holmes's fingers, already chafed and beaten from his earlier endeavour – but at length the deed was done. We resettled ourselves, the windows wide open, and surveyed the room anew.

“I suppose the rug will be replaced,” I said. “It's covered with acid burns. And the lampshade is full of dents.” I looked at Holmes sternly. “Your fault.”

He smirked.

“Apart from that, I think Mrs. Hudson may be just about done,” I concluded optimistically. “A little more tidying here and there, perhaps. At any rate, let us see what tomorrow may bring.”

Tomorrow – when it arrived – brought a great deal, as it transpired. We were late to rise, the pair of us, and we stumbled to the sitting-room to discover much had changed.

The rug had been replaced, as had the lampshade. There were clean curtains at the windows, and the door-knobs shone as new. I observed that Mrs. Hudson had placed some decorative plain covers on the sideboard and the tables: intricately woven white lace doilies. On these, I passed no comment; I moved to my chair to sit and smoke my before-breakfast pipe. The acrid aroma of the _Summer Yellow_ paint had now dispersed, at least, thank goodness. Holmes stood in the plum centre of the room and looked about him.

“What do you have to say then, Holmes?”

He shrugged dramatically, as if the thought was too much trouble, and the voicing of the thought even more wearisome. He scowled towards the doilies. He advanced upon the sideboard and stretched out a hand to dab at one.

The scream shook me out of my daydream. It was shrill, it was strangled, and it spoke of much torment. It caused me to spring from my seat as a jack-in-the-box.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed, startled. “What on earth have you done?”

He was clutching his left hand and staring stricken at his fingertips.

“Jibbly-jibbly-jibbly,” he whinnied.

“I beg your pardon, what?”

He shook his head.

“Holmes, what on earth is the matter?”

He pointed to the sideboard, at the lace doily laid upon it. “THAT,” he shrieked. He pointed to his fingers. “THESE.”

I was baffled. I hurried across and took hold of his hand. I examined it closely. I could see nothing amiss. It appeared in every respect to still be my friend's hand. “Where does it pain you?” I enquired.

The question confused him. He scratched at his head with his unfettered extremity. “It doesn't hurt,” he said. “It just felt bad. That round white thing.” The recollection made him shudder.

“This doily?” I scooped it from the sideboard. It appeared in every respect to still be an ordinary doily. “Holmes, this is ridiculous.”

“You're telling _me_ ,” said Holmes. “It's utterly horrid.”

“No,” I said, “I meant, _you_ are ridiculous.”

At last, I understood. My friend's abraded, paint-chafed fingers had chanced to snag on the lace doily, eliciting the most repellent of sensations.

“Watson, they're everywhere,” said he, “you must get rid of them.” He paused. “Or I'll be sick.”

“You will not be sick,” I said. “Mrs. Hudson would be furious.”

“It's all her fault,” he wailed. “Everything, and all of it. I'm surprised I haven't been sick eight times already.”

I took hold of his elbow. I steered him to his chair, and pushed him into it.

“Holmes,” I said. “If you are unable to face the lace, I shall replace, or make a space, so there's no, er, trace.”

Holmes had now affixed me with his gimlet eye. I dimly recalled his gelid intolerance for poetry.

“Please do so,” he said quietly.

I collected each and every last round white lace doily – there were a fair few – and then stood dithering, not quite sure what to do with them.

“Dispose of them,” said Holmes, his voice now steel as the terror dissipated.

Mrs. Hudson would surely find them if we tossed them into the waste-paper bin. Logic and sound reason both departed, as I yanked our window open and set them sail upon the morning breeze.

“That's much better,” said my friend. I saw him visibly relax.

And so, if you should find yourself down Baker Street one day, do please look up at every interval. There is never any telling when a lace doily may make its way towards the ground from the bay window of an upper floor apartment. Mrs. Hudson never knows quite where they go, and keeps replacing them, and to this day we have not the courage to confess to her.


End file.
